Please Take Back This Disease
by Scarecrowqueen
Summary: James T. Kirk is not in love with his First Officer. Really. First in the "Beautiful Insanity" series. Angst, onesided Kirk/Spock, implied Spock/Uhura and Spock Prime/Kirk Prime.


Disclaimer: If i owned them they'd have taken several egregious liberties with the captains chair.

* * *

You are James T. Kirk, captain of the USS Enterprise, Starfleet's newest flagship.

You are the youngest captain in Starfleet history. (and _take that_ all you bastards who said it couldn't be done, who said you were nothing.)

(You are formerly the only genius level repeat-offender in the Midwest. You are not as proud of this, obviously.)

Every day, you sit center-chair on the command bridge of the _coolestmotherfucking_ ship in the universe and explore new worlds, saving people, solving problems, _boldly going were no man has gone before._ It's fairly awesome, all said and done.

You work with the most talented crew anybody could ask for, and everyday they bring over 100 percent to the table, and you know they'll never let you down, just as you will do the same.

There is no question of this.

There is no question that you love your life.

There is no question that, sometimes, you are fucking _miserable_.

Because there is no question that you are (most assuredly not!) in love with you First Officer.

* * *

You have never noticed his hands, long, slender, graceful appendages that he manipulates with the utmost of skill and precision. You have never watched them almost obsessively, under the guise of examining his moves on the chessboard between you, whenever you play.

You have never admired the slightest shadow of freckles on the bridge of his nose, a telling sign of his half-humanity.

You certainly have not thought a thousand times about a much-higher average body temperature, about a body three times stronger than yours, and what it would mean to be held close, all _heatsafetywarmthlovedevotion_ in a fashion you're never known. This would be, to steal a phrase, _illogical._

Most days, the voice of reason in your head is his.

* * *

You are not, and never have been, jealous of Lt. Uhura (Nyota.) They way he turns his body to her, telling to those who know him, the slight brushes (Vulcan kisses!) of their fingers as they speak mean nothing to you.

You watch them from the corner of your eye on the bridge, and punch the wall in your quarters that night.

No one asks about your bruised knuckles the next day, but Bones' level look tells you all you need to know about his opinion.

You make small talk about the last mission, until he gets the hint and leaves.

* * *

You are in orbit around some godforsaken Podunk-nowhere planet, an away team down on the surface collecting samples and researching shit, and you stare at the black canvas of eternal night, the pinprick stars unfamiliar, and you think of dark, dark eyes, the starlight-pale (greenish, from green blood) skin, and think 'he has all the depth and breadth of endless space' and curse yourself a fool.

You pass him later, on the way to the bridge. He nods to you over his Padd, and you ignore the fissure down your spine like quicksilver. (helookedatmehelookedhelooked…)

* * *

Months in to this five year trek and you are quietly coming apart at the seams, every time you're alone. (Which is both far too often, and never often enough.) You are mad sometimes with the inconceivability of it all, with the _want_ and the _need,_ and the _never having._

You light candles now, in your quarters when it's too much, the way Ambassador Selek (older Spock, future Spock, not your Spock but sometimes close enough to ease the ache a little) has shown you. You are friends in a fashion, as best you can with all the ghosts (different incarnations of each other, and memories of another time, another _life_ left in your head) in-between you.

You gather you thoughts, clear them neatly into little compartments of your mind. Ship, and Crew, and Missions, and Other.

And Spock, of course, largest compartment of them all.

It's not comfortable, compressing such a large _feeling _(love and lust and safety and companionship and joyjoyjoy) into such a small, metal box within you, but you do it.

When you finish, you envision yourself draping a white sheet (mourning cloth) over it to keep it safe. You come out of it panting, tears shining wetly on your cheeks.

Vulcans are touch telepaths, after all, and sometimes in your day-to-day duties, you may brush arms, or bump shoulders.

(Always by accident, of course. You've never craved any such contact that badly. Nevernevernever)

* * *

You like women.

You like women a lot.

You like their hair, their eyes, their feminine curves and laughs and smells.

You've been searching your whole life for (love) an equal, someone to make you _real._

You finally found it, male, half-breed, pointy ears and all.

You tell yourself it makes no difference, because it _doesn't_, not really. All your love means nothing, because it never has. (you mean nothing but the occasionally scolding eyebrow and nearly-exasperating iteration of _captain_)

You realize that you're being, well, rather _girly_ about all of this, and curse softly under your breath.

The look Chekov shoots you when he hears is surreptitious and studying. You ignore it.

(ignore it ignore it ignore it it will go awayawayaway)

It doesn't.

* * *

You dream sometimes of passion, back arching, warm heavy weight pressing you down, down, of heat and lust and communion, of oneness and _meld_ (warm sweetsweet this body over me and around me and in me moremoremore) and it's nothing like you've ever known

But the dreams die when you wake, sheets sticky, alone, and cold.

You are empty these days, hollow and scooped out and it's not all about sex, really, because in the stillest moments you have, you can admit to yourself that all you really want is to crawl into him and hide, until he makes the world a better place for you.

(until the universe stops spinning and collapses and everything fades fades fades and you could be _home_ there, really)

Today you sit on the bridge, the hum of your ship cradles you, moves you at warp speed through constellations, past planets and nebulas and the intricacies of this dark ocean you sail, and your skin prickles along the back of your neck, every bit of you hyperaware of him at his station behind you. You are _infected_ by him, every inch of you _alive_ and _aware_ and hopelessly (foreverandeveramen) _awaiting_ what will never come.

You are James T. Kirk, and you are not in love with your First Officer.

You will never tell him otherwise.

* * *

Sequel now posted, "No Balm in Gilead"


End file.
